Don't Occupy My Throne
by LeviAckermanisbae
Summary: Mustang sighed in frustration. "I know. How the hell do you manage to stay this chipper? I'm sure you've been receiving more paperwork than I have lately, what with being Fuehrer and all." Grumman smiled in response. "Copious amounts of alcohol."


Roy Mustang didn't think that he was the type of person to get angry very easily. He was typically calm, flamboyant even. But calm under pressure. Hawkeye would say otherwise, pointing out plenty of times when he had gotten frustrated because of the fact that his flames couldn't help him win every fight. However, he would reply with a statement along the lines of 'that doesn't count!' while his subordinate would roll her eyes at him.

The point was, he did not anger very easily. This was what made him a good politician. Except when he was stuck in a meeting with a group of dipshits who couldn't tell their heads from their asses.

His polite smile had slipped hours ago and had been replaced by an expression that made it obvious that he clearly wanted to be anywhere but here. He was glad, yet at the same time pissed that nobody in the room seemed to have noticed (because they were a bunch of dipshits who couldn't tell their heads from their asses-)

Grumman was sitting next to him with a wide smile, which gave away the fact that he was enjoying Mustang's suffering.

What made the meeting infinitely worse was the fact that Mustang had been running on about three hours of sleep the past few days because of the amount of paperwork that he was doing to limit the public whiplash against the government after the events of the dreaded promised day. But one plus to come out of the whole mess was that he had been promoted two ranks (don't think about the fact that Hughes had to die to get promoted and you only had to help [more like stand and watch, oh wait, he couldn't even do that without his goddamn eyesight-] a kid beat the shit out of a wanna-be God to get the same promotion).

He didn't find Grumman's promotion to Fuehrer a very big setback, despite what others might have guessed. He'd been expecting it anyways and besides, Grumman was an old man. He would have to retire soon and even if he didn't, he would probably die sooner than, say, Olivier Armstrong. And when Grumman (hopefully) eventually stepped down, Mustang would have the support he needed to become Fuehrer.

It was especially helpful that that she-devil, Olivier had decided that she was much more comfortable in Briggs than in Central because if she had decided to go against him, she definitely would have won, not only because of the Briggs' loyalty to her, but also because she would probably scare the shit out of everyone into voting for her. And even better, she reluctantly supported him ("You're a better choice than most of these incompetent idiots, though not by much. So, yes, if you decided to become Fuehrer, I would be behind you. Reluctantly.")

But besides his ambitions for becoming the Fuehrer, there were more important things to focus on. Like his current boredom and annoyance.

Between everyone's bickering over the most mundane and unimportant things, and Grumman's constant leering, Mustang felt like he was very close to his breaking point with everyone's idiocy. Grumman seemed to notice that Roy was about to blow a casket on one of the poor, unfortunate people in the room and called for a break to the meeting (why hadn't he done this two hours ago?) and walked alongside Mustang as he went in search of some much-needed coffee, while the remaining idiots continued to bicker as if their Fuehrer had never spoken.

"They're clearly a special little group, aren't they?" Grumman said, clearly mocking their intelligence.

"Clearly deranged, you mean?"

Grumman snorted at the sentiment. "Now, Mustang, you shouldn't make fun of your peers."

Mustang rolled his eyes. "This isn't kindergarten. They shouldn't be bickering like a couple of toddlers on the playground," He replied. "They should be taking these things seriously. We don't have the luxury of squabbling over details, because if we do, nothing would ever get done. They're not even focusing on what we called this goddamn meeting for." Mustang groaned in frustration. "I swear, if I have to stay in that room with those dolts, I will end up killing one or all of them."

Grumman laughed loudly at the idea. "You kids and your temper. You're not going to become Fuehrer with that attitude."

Mustang sighed in frustration. "I know. How the hell do you manage to stay this chipper? I'm sure you've been receiving more paperwork than I have lately, what with being Fuehrer and all."

Grumman smiled in response. "Copious amounts of alcohol."

Roy snorted as he started to make himself some coffee. "Somebody should invent a drink that can keep me more energized than four galleons of coffee."

"Yes, I'm sure you could use something like that, considering you still fall asleep after having more coffee than should be humanly possible," Grumman teased. "You should just take the whole bag with you. The meeting may be rather boring, but I still don't want you passing out in the middle of it." Grumman patted Mustang on the back, almost knocking him over and spilling some coffee on his shoes. "Well, I'll be off. I should check in with my secretary before starting the meeting again. You should get back soon, though." Grumman winked and he was off.

Roy stared after him, carefully drinking his coffee. Soon enough he would be the Fuehrer. He just needed to channel his patience in the meantime.

_"Don't occupy my throne. __Give me the crown I own."_


End file.
